Eve Is A Twofold Mystery.

The Man, Most Man, Works Best For Men, And, If Most Men Indeed, He Gets His Manhood Plainest From His Soul: While, Obviously, This Stringent Soul Itself Obeys Our Old Rules Of Development; The Spirit Ever Witnessing In Ours, And Love, The Soul Of Soul, Within The Soul, Evolving It Sublimely.

An Ignorance Of Means May Minister To Greatness, But An Ignorance Of Aims Make It Impossible To Be Great At All.

I Remember, When I Was A Child And Wrote Poems In Little Clasped Books, I Used To Kiss The Books And Put Them Away Tenderly Because I Had Been Happy Near Them, And Take Them Out By Turns When I Was Going From Home, To Cheer Them By The Change Of Air And The Pleasure Of The New Place. This, Not For The Sake Of The Verses Written In Them, And Not For The Sake Of Writing More Verses In Them, But From Pure Gratitude.

And There My Little Doves Did Sit With Feathers Softly Brown And Glittering Eyes That Showed Their Right To General Nature's Deep Delight.

A Grave, On Which To Rest From Singing?